


Still

by medea1313



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, OT4, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:42:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8938342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medea1313/pseuds/medea1313
Summary: Ten years post-"Chosen," Buffy decides she's ready to make a life with Angel, but things are complicated with Spike and Faith hanging around.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this many years ago and was inspired to re-work it during a current Buffy rewatch. Because of when I originally started writing, it's canon until mid-season 5 of AtS, so basically ignores NFA.
> 
> In my working docs, this is just titled "OT4" so... that's where it's going.

Buffy’s eyes had lines around them, slight but real. She’d noticed them in the mirror a few months ago, had thought _it’s time_ , although they were more of an excuse than a reason. Angel and Spike, standing in the sunlight-shielded lobby of Wolfram and Hart, had nary a wrinkle between them.

“Nary” was a strange word.

Buffy was stalling, and she’d promised herself so firmly that she would stop that.

“Here you are,” she said, because she could not think of something less stupid to say, “both of you. At once.” As if they had sensed her presence, both of her exes had appeared the moment she stepped in the door, looking exactly the same as they always had, and always would. That was why she had come, wasn’t it? Because some things never changed.

“Buffy. It’s good to see you,” Angel said with feeling. “You look great.”

“Thanks. You too.” Her eyes shifted to the elevators, wondering if she could still make an escape. No: it was time. Finally, reluctantly, she looked at Spike. He was attempting nonchalance. “Hi.”

“Hi love. How you been?”

“Pretty good. You?”

“I get by. You know, when that one isn’t being a pain in my arse.” Buffy smiled at Spike, quick and unconscious, then glanced at Angel for a reaction. Instinct, habit. He was expressionless, but not angry, as if his chocolate eyes were trying not to be amused. Things had changed here, maybe, after all.

“Spike, don’t you have work to be doing?” Angel asked laconically.

“Angel, don’t you have a bloody company to be running?”

“What am I paying you for again?”

“You aren’t. Well, hardly enough to be worth it.”

“Enough to keep you in horrible clothes.”

“Oh ho, you want to talk about fashion sense, I—“

“Boys, boys, boys, lets not get into subjects we know nothing about,” Faith admonished, sauntering into the lobby. Tight jeans, tight shirt, grin. Her duffel bag was fraying and held most of her earthly possessions. Speaking of people who had and had not changed.

“Hmm, speak for yourself,” Buffy murmured, “I was hoping they’d take off their shirts in order to compare them better. Oh, did I say that out loud?”

The tension seemed to break and heighten all at once. Spike grinned and arched an eyebrow at her. Angel rolled his eyes heavenward. Buffy hadn’t warned them that she was coming. She wondered what they thought, what they expected, what they would say when they knew. What _he_ would say.

Since the subject of shirtlessness had come up, Spike claimed that Angel was getting a blood belly. Friendly bickering ensued, like a well-worn routine, as if they’d insulted each other in precisely the same way many times before, until all the venom had left the exchange and they just said it to have something to say.

The vampires ushered the Slayers upstairs without demanding an explanation for their presence. Buffy visited rarely enough that they must be questioning. Usually she went right to the point; this tangle of things-to-be-said-and-not-to-be-said did not lend itself to extended, aimless conversation. Faith joined in the banter, unconcerned with the effect of her words, of any words. She was there as moral support — for whom? — and company for the trip, and because she said she missed Angel. Buffy tried not to worry about that last part.

Upstairs in Angel’s office Angel offered coffee and a sleek mini-fridge full of beverages he had no use for. Buffy took a Perrier and tried not to fiddle too much with the cap. She was unexpectedly nervous. Maybe it was Spike’s presence, which she hadn’t accounted for, at least not so immediately. She’d thought she would ask to see Angel, talk to him, figure out what was happening, and then… and then deal with Spike, once she knew what was happening. Maybe she should have called ahead, or asked to see Angel in an elsewhere.

Angel asked about the school and Buffy sat on the edge of his desk and dished out news as cheerfully as she could manage: Willow and Giles were teaching there as well as functioning as Watchers for the Slayers still based in Cleveland; Dawn taught part time while finishing grad school. The Slayers now occupying Angel’s office furniture taught at the school a little, their main duties taking young Slayers out on training runs, traveling to confront especially serious situations around the country and the world. Faith and her bag were usually on the road. Dawn was engaged. Xander had a new baby. Giles and his girlfriend had adopted an orphaned three-year-old Slayer, who was more than a handful.

At some point all the unsaid things got in the way. Angel looked Buffy in the eyes and asked why she was there. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s great to see you. But it sounds like everything is going fine. What can we do for you?”

Buffy pulled in a breath, grateful and frightened at the same time. Her eyes fixed on Faith, whose face was closed. The brunette Slayer rose suddenly. “C’mon Spike,” she said, “I want to hear the interesting news. Y’ know, the stuff B doesn’t get to hear.”

The request fooled no one in the room. Spike shot Buffy a look that hurt her bones, a plea for her to take it back, to ask him to stay. She closed her eyes until she heard the door shut behind them. When she opened them again, Angel was watching her from a chair across the room. “What is it?”

She let her eyes linger on his familiar face, the solid angles of his cheeks and dark wells of his eyes, and the little lines that formed on his forehead when he was concerned. There was still time to back out, but not very much: once this was said, it wouldn’t be easy to take back. She knew how much this meant to her, to be here, and how much she hoped it would mean to him. This wasn’t like asking some guy out on a date, because she liked the way he looked at her. She did like the way Angel looked at her though: the shy warmth in his eyes, the care, the bottomless devotion. She liked the way he looked too, still. The shiver in the pit of her stomach she had every time she saw him when she was sixteen and he was ancient and unknowable and frankly kind of annoying — the shiver was still there. Everything that had always been there between them was still there.

The curse was still there, between them. In Ohio she’d told herself that there were lots of things they could do short of perfect happiness. She’d told herself that it might be enough to touch him, and be touched by him. She’d told herself it was worth it. But. Now, looking at his large, capable hands and the hint of muscled thighs through his slacks, she remembered that she was not seventeen anymore. Now she knew what she would be giving up.

He was watching her watching him. He sat forward, clasped those hands in front of him. He wasn’t wearing any rings, she saw. She had a sudden, burning ache in her gut to see him wearing her ring. She wanted to own him, the way she once had. She wanted, after nine years of temporary, nine years of movement, nine years of flirtation and fucking and frustration and friendship, to be owned.

“You remember the last time we were in Sunnydale together?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“I said that I wasn’t ready, that I was—“

“Still baking, I remember,” Angel said with a half-smile. What a stupid metaphor, Buffy thought. Ah well, youth. Sometimes it amazed her — and weirded her out a bit — to think he could have loved her at the age of sixteen. She met sixteen year-old Slayers all the time now and they were… very young.

She smiled back anyway. Maybe he was actually a pervert, and she was about to get hardcore rejected because she was too old for him now, her inner cynic suggested. Or maybe it really was meant to be. “Right. Well, uh, I guess I think I am ready to be taken out of the oven.” Oh, Buffy, did you really just say that? She winced and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I think you make me revert to youthful babble.”

“I like your babble,” Angel said softly.

She smiled, brilliant for a second with remembered happiness, that way he always had of turning her self-doubt upside down and making her feel perfect, and then put a hand up to her face and shook her head. “I’m doing this all wrong.”

Angel was shaking his head as he stood up and crossed the room toward her. “I don’t think there’s a wrong way to do this,” he said.

“You don’t even know what ‘this’ is,” she reminded him, “since I can’t seem to get out a sentence that actually makes sense.”

He stopped a few feet away from her and put his hands in his pockets. She wondered if he was trying to stop himself from touching her. She thought it might be easier if they were touching. Touching could perhaps convey at least a part of what she meant, why she was here. But it could also cause its own confusions.

She forced herself to look him in the eyes and say, “Angel, I miss you. I have had enough time on my own, and enough time to look around at the world of possible romantic partners available to a Slayer who is used to keeping secrets and giving orders and almost or actually dying a lot, and I’m tired of all of that. And I miss you. So if you are still interested, then I would like to try, with you, again.”

He didn’t break eye contact as she spoke, just returned her gaze steadily, warmly, letting her say her piece but showing firmly that he was listening.

She had always loved how he listened to her.

After she fell silent, and her heart thumped twice in her chest, and her hands gripped the edge of the desk she sat on, he said, continuing to look at her, “I’m still interested.”

Her smile then put the last one to shame.

It was hard to think of what to say after that, even though she had come with a lot more she wanted to say, about how her life had been and why she had made this decision, and what it would mean to try. Spike would have already asked a thousand questions, Buffy thought, and then thought how unfair it was to think of Spike right now. But Angel’s silence, his patience, was one of the reasons she was here, with him, and not with Spike. She wanted something patient now. She wanted something that would burn steady and for a long time.

He said her name, softly, in a way that made her shiver. She slid off the desk and onto her own two feet, shortening but not closing the distance between them. He was close enough that she needed to tilt her chin up to see him. His hands were still in his pockets and she thought, _I came all this way, won’t you come part way too_? But before she could even finish thinking it, he said, “Really?” and she realized he was frightened. Even though she’d barely said anything at all, he knew as well as she did there was no turning back.

She looked up until she could meet his eyes, and reached out one hand to touch the spot where his heart didn’t beat, and the other to draw his face down close to her own. “Really,” she said, clearly and calmly and so, so sure in that moment.

Then it didn’t matter who moved. They were kissing, for the first time in a decade, his mouth strange and cold and familiar all at the same time. Once upon a time, kissing a vampire had been her normal and humans had felt hot and wet and clumsy by comparison. She had almost forgotten how it wasn't just the coolness of his mouth but the equality of strength and speed and attention that made kissing Angel unusual. She had chalked it down to teenage fantasy that a simple kiss would make her body melt, that she could feel dominated and powerful all at the same tie, but it wasn’t false memory: she had to grip his arms to stay upright and she did, hard, and he didn’t mind.

 

“You know what this is about,” Spike accused when Faith shut the door in the conference room across the hall. His office was downstairs, near the armory but he went where he would in the building and at this moment he wouldn’t go anywhere if he didn’t have to.

“What makes you say that?” Faith asked.

“Well it’s bloody obvious, isn’t it? Was that supposed to be subtle? Might as well have just shouted ‘Buffy wants to shag the caveman so you better leave the room!’” Spike was almost shouting, panic spilling out in his consonants. His leather coat lifted as he turned, paced up, turned back. Faith calmly perched on the edge of the conference table, angled one of the chairs out with her foot and kicked it at Spike as he turned away from her. The chair connected with the back of his knees and he sat, spun to avoid the wall, glared at her.

“I’m not subtle,” Faith agreed. “I have never been subtle. Never pretended to be subtle. I lied to get you out of the room and if you try and go back there now, I’ll resort to violence. Nuts?”

“No thanks.” Spike settled sullenly in the chair, extending his legs and crossing his ankles. The look on his face was reminiscent, and Faith was tactful and disturbed enough to look away. She remembered the look, the silence, the frustrated need. After a moment he burst out, “It’s not fair! What has he got that I haven’t, besides a black-on-black wardrobe, a huge law firm and the ability to brood for weeks on end?”

“His natural hair color?” Faith suggested. The growl Spike produced in reply did not bother her. She kept an eye on him as she threw back a handful of nuts from a bowl on the conference table; he remained silent, lost in his Angel impression.

“What’s going on in there, really?” Spike asked finally, intent, intense, worry overlying pain overlying disbelief.

“I don’t know,” Faith replied honestly. “It depends on a lot of things.”

“Well what does Buffy _want_ to go on in there?”

“I don’t know,” Faith repeated. “And I don’t think she does either.” Faith had been back from Ireland for two days when Buffy came into her room one night and announced she was going to see Angel. Faith had been lying in bed, watching TV. Buffy was wearing pajamas, blue, with little clouds and stars on them. She said she might not be coming back, and Faith had traced a star on Buffy’s thigh with her fingertip and volunteered to go too. She had not been happy at the news, for no reason she could discern — they were both adults, and if this was what they wanted — that was the reasonable answer, the theory. Faith had stared at the muted TV after Buffy went to bed and wondered which one she was worried about losing.

Disturbingly, Faith could empathize with Spike, his dark eyes and twisted fingers and the coiled anger in his body.

It was a moot point. Faith was telling the truth; she didn’t know what was going to happen, what Buffy would say, how Angel would respond. She wasn’t sure if Buffy would be happy if she got what she wanted. The oldest living Slayer still had a yen for Spike, even if she’d decided Angel was The One. Buffy never said as much, but Faith knew her blond girl.

“You’re helpful,” Spike grumbled.

“You’re welcome,” Faith said with a smile that cut. Their eyes met. His dropped first.

“So what have you been doing with yourself anyway? You haven’t been by in a while. Angel was getting lonely, nobody to lecture to.”

“I thought that’s what he paid you for,” Faith replied, shrugged. “I’ve been around. Been meaning to come for a while, check up on you two. Make sure neither of you have relapsed.”

“Oh yeah, you’re one to talk. I heard about your little smash-up at that school of Buffy’s.”

“The girls were being stupid, I taught them a little lesson. It was educational.”

“You enjoyed the hell out of it.”

“Yeah, I did.” Their eyes met again. Faith wanted him to challenge her on it, wanted to call out the potential for violence in those slender limbs, that old sarcastic grin. “So I take it you’ve got a desk job now? No more roughhousing for you?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Then don’t bitch at me about it.”

Faith scooped up another handful of nuts, waiting for Spike to say something else. He tapped various body parts — feet, fingers. “What the bloody hell are they doing in th— I don’t want to know, do I?”

“My guess is no.”

There was another pause and then Spike asked abruptly, “Wanna go out?”

“You buying?”

“Why not, it’s the wanker’s money anyway.”

Faith flashed Spike a smile. “I’m in.”

“Don’t let me come back here until I’m good and pissed, yeah?” Spike confirmed as he abandoned his chair to follow her out the door.

“You got it.”

 

“There are problems,” Angel said after their first euphoric make out session had subsided. They were leaning against his desk, facing out. One of his hands was still entwined with hers. If he let go, she would disappear.

“Believe me, I know.” Their linked hands rested on the desk between them, knuckles scraping wood, one hand cool, one warm. “I’ve thought about it a lot.”

“There’s Spike.” The name was heavy but there was no malice in Angel’s tone. Something had shifted between the two vampires; Buffy wasn’t sure what, or how it would change anything. It might have been easier if they still hated each other: the more affection, the more potential for pain. She had never had anything good that didn’t bring pain close on its heels.

“Yeah.”

His hand tightened around hers and she tilted her head to look at him, her face cramped with worry. “He’s a pain in the ass, but I can’t fire him,” Angel explained, “he’s made a place here.”

“I would never ask you to do that. Or want you to,” Buffy hastened to assure him. The last thing she wanted to do was make things worse for Spike. She pictured a life, she and Angel eating lunch at his desk, kissing over their versions of raw food (hers: sushi, his: ethically sourced blood), and Spike watching from the doorway. Was there anything worse than that?

“Good.” Angel paused, his eyes still intent on her face. “Buffy, I want you to tell me the truth. Are you sure about this? About your decision?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, without hesitation. She’d become good at lying over the years. Not that she was lying now. She was sure of her decision, but not of anything else. It had all seemed simpler back in Cleveland. Wrinkle lines, and choices for forever. He still looked uncertain so she explained quickly, “Angel, I came here for you. I won’t lie to you; I do still care about Spike. Part of me will always care about him. But I could never—“ she cut herself off, because she didn’t want to lie, tried again. “He’s not the person I want to spend my life with. He’s not exactly comfortable, if you know what I mean.” Her mouth twisted up, as did Angel’s. That could be misconstrued, Buffy thought. “Not that you’re comfortable. I mean, not in a boring, you’re-just-convenient way. You are comfortable, but in a I’m-very-comfortable-and-happy-when-I’m-with-you-way which is good. And you’re more than that too!”

Angel was smiling; Buffy relaxed, smiled back. “I get it. I’m just a big, cuddly teddy bear with fangs?”

“A big sexy teddy bear with fangs,” Buffy corrected. He growled quietly and bent to kiss her, teeth catching on her bottom lip before the kiss dissolved into softness.

“So what were we talking about?” Angel straightened, reluctantly.

Buffy didn’t reply for a moment, having a deja-vu moment. Eventually, her smile fell away. “Spike,” she said quietly.

His face darkened. “Right. Spike.”

“Do you think…how will he handle it? I mean, I haven’t seen him for a while, is he maybe over m—“

“You’re hard to get over,” Angel interrupted quietly. “He won’t handle it well.”

Restless and aching, Buffy looked away, wanted to close her eyes and take it all back. But she didn’t want to take any of it back. She wanted to be here, exactly here, with her thumbnail pressing into Angel’s palm and the pads of his fingers resting between her knuckles. She also didn’t want to hurt anyone — didn’t want to hurt Spike. _He’s in my heart_ , she’d said. He still was. If those words left her lips again, Angel would back off, but she was an adult, she knew where she wanted to be. Here. It just hurt, a little. “What should we do?”

“Keep as low a profile as possible, I think. Don’t throw it in his face. There’s not a lot else we can do.”

Buffy wondered what that meant for sleeping arrangements. She and Faith had a motel room for a few days but money was an issue. She’d probably need to get her own apartment, though with current real estate prices she had kind of been hoping Angel would want to move forward quickly on this relationship thing. But maybe it would be better to each have their own space, at least to start.

“Buffy?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“There’s, uh, something you should know.”

“Please don’t tell me you have been converted to evil by Wolfram and Hart. Or you’re living with someone already. Or you and Spike are secretly gay.”

“Uh . . . no.”

“Good. Then what is it?” Buffy stepped away from the desk, turning to stand between his legs and look up at him expectantly. His thighs brushed against hers, tightened a little.

“A few years ago I hired a sorcerer to fix my curse,” Angel said. The words didn’t mean anything at first. They couldn’t mean anything, or they would mean too much.

“You mean that you—“

“My soul is permanent now,” Angel affirmed. “No clauses. No limits. Mouth closed.”

Buffy’s teeth clicked as she shut her mouth, glaring at him for a brief second before it dawned on her that he was telling the truth, he was waiting for her reaction, her reply. He had the curse fixed. He had his soul. She could have sex with him right here and now if she wanted to. “Why?” she asked suddenly.

Angel was clearly not expecting the question. “What do you mean, why?”

“Why did you get it fixed? Was it for a specific person?” Buffy was being unreasonable, and knew it, and continued to be so. It wasn’t that she’d thought Angel would be sitting around waiting for her all these years, but if it was a question of perfect happiness, then wouldn’t that other person be serious competition for her now?

“No, of course not. I’m not a monk Buffy, but I wasn’t in pursuit of anyone in particular. I just wanted to make sure—“

“What? That if you found another soulmate, you’d be prepared?” Buffy asked, trying to sound like she was teasing but not quite sure if she was.

“No, that if I found you, I’d be able to — Spike made fun of me,” Angel said suddenly. Buffy stilled.

“What?”

“He said that I was incapable of . . . uh, satisfying you. Which wasn’t true anyway! But it was annoying.” Angel sounded aggrieved, not recognizing what was wrong with his statement. Angel had fixed this huge problem in their relationship — his own life — because Spike was mocking him?

“You _are_ twelve,” she accused.

“I’m older than he is.”

“Which makes it that much worse,” Buffy pointed out. He didn’t answer and she considered how annoyed she was. Not very much, really. How amused she was. Sort of amused. Her hands claimed his and her neck tilted up, painfully. He was too tall. “Sorry. I was just a little surprised. That’s amazing. Really. I’m having a hard time believing it, that’s all. I mean, I psyched myself up to be all technically-celibate-Buffy and now I don’t have to be.”

“You’re okay with that?” Angel asked carefully.

Buffy stared at him, surprised at the question. “Of course I’m okay with it. I’m very relieved!”

“I just wasn’t sure, since we’ve only ever had sex once, and I thought maybe part of why you chose me was because I couldn’t—“

Buffy did not let him finish the sentence. “I see where you are going with that, but no. Before we went any further with this I was going to make sure we had a talk about how exactly we were going to live within the confines of the curse — and if we couldn’t figure it out, that was going to be a dealbreaker. I’m not sixteen anymore, Angel. I like sex, a lot.” Her hands flexed where they lay on his thighs and he made a very low growling sound in response. “I want to have it with a partner, with someone I love. But I also recognize that sex by itself is not a relationship, and I want more than just sex. I came here because I think you and I had more, and can have more. But do I want to have sex with you if I can? Yes, I definitely do!”

“Thank god for that,” Angel muttered as he bent his head to kiss her again.

This kiss was different, fiercer. Buffy had been holding back. The year after he came back from hell they had kissed, and touched, and tried a lot of things that didn’t involve orgasms for Angel, under the theory that his awareness of the curse itself probably meant he would never be perfectly happy again, no matter what they did… but also, always, with caution and fear and a lingering sense of shame for what their desires had already cost them both. She’d figured they were both in for more of that if they moved forward with this. But instead, suddenly, she was kissing him with total abandon. Her head bent backward with the force of the kiss until he gripped her hair to hold her still and she retaliated by scraping her teeth over his lip, meeting his tongue with her own, pressing her body closer to his length.

He surged forward, bringing his erection into contact with her body through layers of fabric. His hands slid down to grip her ass, pull her up against him. She’d forgotten how big his hands were. She’d forgotten how desperate she could be to touch all of him at once, even though he had so many more inches of skin and muscle than she. Giving in to instinct, she climbed him, gripping his shirt and hair as her knees found his hips and then over, straddling him against the edge of the desk.

Their lips broke apart on him gasping her name. He kissed her throat, the side of her neck, ran one hand up beneath her shirt to cup her breast while the other held her tight against him. His hand was cold but warmed against her skin.

“Let’s not wait,” she said, and then added breathlessly, “anymore.”

Angel chuckled into her throat and tweaked her nipple. “Agreed.”

She pushed him back onto the desk and kneeled up on either side of him, opening enough space between their bodies to reach down between them for his belt buckle. He pushed her skirt up over her hips and ripped away her damp panties. His fingers stroked her, gathering wetness, and then lazily circled her clit. His eyes were still on her face and she was distracted in her task, looking into his eyes, shuddering against his hand. For a moment she forgot to breathe until he reminded her and she drew air in as two of his long fingers slipped inside her cunt, his thumb nestling against her clit. She remembered herself and undid his belt buckle and pants, pushing them down enough to release his cock. It sprang up, pale and hard and thick in her hand.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “We don’t have to—“

She cut him off with a look, kissed him again. The head of his cock was weeping onto her hand. Her cunt was weeping onto his. She wanted more than his fingers, after all these years. His hand withdrew and she rose up above him, ready.

“Buffy,” Angel said, catching her chin in one hand as she fit the head of his cock to her cunt. His voice was harsh and raw, his eyes so dark as they met hers. “Is this really happening?”

She kissed him, bruisingly, and then pulled back because she wanted to see his face when he came inside her. All those years ago it had been dark, and she had been so shy — she’d hidden her face in his neck as if that meant he couldn’t see her either. Now she wanted to see him. Angel, her Angel. “It feels real to me,” she said, and then lowered herself onto him. She could feel every bump and ridge of him. She could see every thought and emotion in his eyes: joy and agony and triumph and fear. She could feel his cool flesh warming.

Then he was all the way inside of her. He kissed her again, tenderly, and she rolled her hips with the slow thrusting of his tongue in her mouth. Their hands entwined and her heels in the small of his back urged him deeper and he never closed his eyes, although she did, when it became too much. She rose and fell and he did too, thrusting up into her when she paused or faltered, grinding her hips down into him when she held back to tease them both. She closed her eyes and his her face in his shoulder after all and tried not to cry out because they were still in his office, she had only that much presence of mind and no more, as she came apart and came together. He put his hand over her mouth and she bit it, and then he kissed her and she bit him on the mouth too.

She was still experiencing aftershocks when he made her open her eyes and look at him again. “I’m going to cum,” he said. She smiled, and deliberately tightened her inner muscles around him and said, “Perfect,” and he bit her then too, but without changing so he only bruised the skin, and thrust hard into her and came. She pulled his face down and kissed him again, her heart racing with love and pleasure and fear, even though she told herself that it was safe now. It had to be safe now. And anyway, was this really perfect happiness, on his work desk with Spike probably across the hall? Oh shit, she should not be thinking about that.

They clung together for a moment before he lifted her off of him and put her down on the desk. He cleaned them both up as best he could with a handkerchief from his drawer. Such a gentleman.

“Well,” she said, when they were mostly restored to rights, “that was unexpected.”

He smiled. “But incredible.”

She tilted her head and looked at him, remembering despite herself the last time they had done this, what he had said afterward. He must have been remembering too because he said, “We never talked about it.”

“I know it wasn’t you,” she reassured him, “it doesn’t matter.”

“I didn’t mean what I — what Angelus — said after. I meant the first time we made love.” Angel’s voice lingered over the words ‘the first time,’ and Buffy felt a little thrill because now there was a second time. If you could call having sex on a desk after not seeing each other for several years “making love.”

“What about it?”

“It was perfect,” he said softly, and Buffy had to look away, to hide the sudden jolt in her chest. Of course it had been perfect, that was the point, wasn’t it? Perfect happiness. But somehow it was different to hear him say it. He reached out and touched her chin and turned her back to face him. “Buffy, I am sorry I never said it. I didn’t want to belabor the point when we couldn’t ever do it again. But being with you was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Buffy couldn’t honestly say it was her best thing ever. It had hurt, and it was too wrapped up for her in everything that came after. But parts of it had been wonderful, if she could just take those moments and forget the rest. “You don’t have to apologize,” she said, “I knew what it was, no matter what Angelus said. And now I know it again. Angel, what just happened… that wasn’t perfect happiness, was it?”

Angel looked a little surprised but he answered honestly. “I don’t think so, no. Not here, like this. But Buffy… it was still pretty amazing.”

She smiled and reached out to take his hand. “Definitely not a bad place to start.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faith and Spike make a wager.

“I win. Again,” Faith said smugly as the black ball rolled gently into the corner pocket. “Strip.”

“Yeah, yeah, Ms. Super Coordination Slayer big shot over here is really enjoying beatin’ Spike.” The blond vampire was already without shoes, socks, jacket and button up shirt. Now he discarded his undershirt, throwing it on a chair. Pale skin looked paler against his black jeans, hanging low on his hips. The night had begun hours ago in a bar, moved to a dance club, another bar, and back to Spike’s apartment. They were sweaty and buzzed and lonely. They’d decided to up the ante. Faith was also shoeless, but her tank top, jeans, and lace underwear were still in place.

“Mm-hmm,” Faith agreed, putting her weight on the table. She licked her lips, took a drink, admired Spike. “Now, unless I miss my guess, you go commando. Which means this’ll be the last round.”

“Unless I win,” Spike amended. Faith granted him the clause, unlikely as it was, with a wave.

“So what’s the grand prize?” Faith asked, taking a swig.

Spike snorted. “How ‘bout not being starkers?”

“I bet I can think of something better than that,” Faith purred, slipping off of the table. “Rack ‘em, let’s go.”

“God you’re bossy.”

“You love it.”

“Fuck off.” Faith cleared out the pockets, rolling the balls one by one toward Spike. He shot Faith a sidelong glance as he racked them carefully. “All right then, you want a bigger wager?”

“You name it,” Faith said, leaning over the table and preparing to break, “you’re gonna pay it anyway.”

“Whoever loses has to tell the Tragic Twosome how they really feel. About both of them.” Faith’s hand slipped on the shot. The triangle remained largely intact.

Ignoring her shot, Faith straightened up. Spike wasn’t looking at her anymore, he was smirking slightly as he contemplated his shot. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” she demanded. He raised his head for a second to look her in the eyes.

“I think you know.” Looking back at the table he shot, back muscles tensing slightly, a beautiful play of soft skin and sleek strength. The balls scattered, the four sinking into the opposite corner pocket. “Well, whaddya say?”

“You gonna do it naked?” Faith asked.

“Will you?” Spike shot back, eyes resting on the slope of her breasts.

“Take your shot.”

“My pleasure.”

Spike was on fire and Faith was a little off; neither was surprised when Spike sunk the last ball. “Well?” he said, eyeing her.

“You said the game wasn’t over if you won.”

“Then strip.” Faith did, throwing her shirt on the chair beside his. Her jeans sat low on her hips, exposing a toned stomach and the small of her back when she turned to re-rack. He didn’t touch her there, though he thought about it, and she thought about him thinking about it. He walked around the table, watching her from the other side, each not-so-covertly admiring each other. The way his pants were almost falling off, revealing the veracity of her guess, the way her black lace bra contrasted with the pale slope of her breasts.

“We still playing for the same prize?” Spike asked, catching her eyes.

“If you can call it that. Break.”

He did. He also won again. She discarded her pants on the floor, kicking them out of the way. He made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat. She winked and then turned serious again, because she could only delay for so much longer. And she didn’t want to — she wanted this to be over, whichever way it fell.

“All or nothing,” she said, bracing one hand on the edge of the table and leaning into his line of fire. His eyes flickered over her the pale slope of her breasts rising out of the lace cups of her bra and he nodded briefly.

“Yeah, all right.”

She was beating him the whole game. They’d both been playing a long time — he’d been playing longer — and they were among the world’s best in terms of reflexes, control, hand-eye coordination. Well-matched. But she was winning.

Four balls left: the eight ball, two of his, and one of hers. And it was Faith’s shot. Her ball, the six, was sitting inches away from the eight ball, both almost in line for a corner pocket. Straight shot, nothing too fancy. “Think you can make it?” Spike asked as Faith chalked her cue and eyed the line.

“No problem.” He was leaning on the edge, ab muscles tight, eyes dark. She tried not to look at him as she arched her hand, set it all up. He was still watching intently as she made the shot. Both their eyes followed the balls, the collision, and Faith stood up, smiling slightly as her ball began to travel straight toward the pocket.

“See, I to—“

“Shh.” Faith quieted, seeing what Spike saw — the six hitting the eight, slowing, the eight speeding up, falling down and down. Game over.

A little shocked, Faith put her cue down on the table and stood still, leaning on her fists. Cool skin brushed her back and Spike was there, pressing his lips against the juncture of her shoulder and neck. “Don’t worry love, you’ll survive. I did. I do.” One of his hands traced a line from the bottom of her breasts down her side to her hip, along the edge of her boyshorts.

“A deal’s a deal,” she said, to convince herself as much as him. But what was she doing? What the hell was she supposed to say? She turned, catching herself between the table and his legs. “Spike, I don’t—“

“I know,” he said gently and she wanted to argue, but she couldn’t find any reasons to use against him, or even words. He was right. She didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, but he was right.

She raised her eyes to his. “Game over.” Her hands were following his lead, feeling out the contours of his abs, his pelvis.

He smiled slowly, clever fingers moving to her back, and murmured, “Not quite.”

It surprised her sometimes that they’d never had sex before. It was the kind of thing they would both be stupid enough to do, and then regret. But there was always Buffy to think about, or Angel, or both, hovering like judgmental ghosts over their shoulders murmuring, _Be good_ , or _He’s mine_ , or _You’re mine_ , all the words they’d never say in reality.

He’d tipped her onto the pool table and stripped off her underwear and was on his knees face buried in her cunt before the ghosts had a chance to say a word this time. Spike’s mouth was cold, like an ice cube that never melted, opening her up, finding all her secrets. Faith set the soles of her feet on his shoulders and tilted her pelvis up to meet him, fuck second thoughts, fuck hesitancy. He ate pussy like he’d had hundreds of years of practice, which he almost certainly had: lapping at her and suckling and scraping and fucking her with his tongue and fuck fuck fuck her heels on his shoulders would crush a man but he bore up under it like the monster he was, bore up and gave it all back, took her apart gently and easily but without mercy.

After he lay down on the pool table beside her and said with a smirk, “I heard some begging in there.”

She turned her head to look at him. “’Hurt me just a little bit more?’” she quoted at him.

“That was the beginning of it for me, you know,” he said conversationally, still staring at the ceiling. “First time I wanted to fuck her more than I wanted to kill her. And it was you all along.”

“Life’s a bitch like that,” she said.

He turned to look at her then, finally, and smiled almost sweetly. “Don’t I know it.”

It was Faith’s turn to look away. There were some spots on the ceiling that might be dead flies or live spiders or something grosser. She wondered what would have happened if she and Spike had met earlier as themselves. He probably wouldn’t have a soul, and she would probably be dead. She didn’t have Buffy’s power to reform lost souls. They would have created some beautiful mayhem before the end though.

“Don’t get all maudlin on me now,” he said.

“Oh, did you want to fuck?” Faith asked.

“Well, yeah.”

She laughed and rolled over onto him. “Okay, fine. But I get to be on top.”

He grinned up at her. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

Waking up with a vampire was different: the heartbeat, the temperature. It had been a long time since she had done it, and she was out of practice. It startled her, the waking, for a moment.

“You okay?” Angel asked. He could feel Buffy’s muscles tense, wrapped up as they were.

“Fine,” she murmured, relaxing, his body warm where she had been touching it all night. “Good. Perfect.” He kissed her fingertips and she closed her eyes again, breathed for both of them.

 

“You’re sexy when you sleep,” Spike said from the doorway.

“I’m sexy all the time,” Faith said, turning over onto her stomach. The sheets had disappeared over the edge of the bed. Faith’s naked thighs had goosebumps on them. She’d slept in worse conditions.

“I’m going to work,” Spike said, throwing a blanket over her. Faith kept her head down even when she wanted to look up, left her hair lying tangled over her face. She listened to the sounds of him getting dressed, leaving the apartment, and pretended she was still asleep.

 

Both of them looked startled, and not entirely pleased, when they smelled each other. A vampire’s sense of smell was generally an advantage, but both Spike and Angel would have paid to be rid of it at that moment. Both had done what they could to disguise the telltale scent — showered, put on cologne — but there was no help for it. Sex left a strong imprint.

“You didn’t waste time,” Spike grumbled, making an obvious effort not to appear upset at the news.

“Neither did you,” Angel commented, slightly more put together but still displeased. They’d been avoiding each other all day, but there was a staff meeting, nothing they could do.

“What of it?” Spike asked, his lower class accent thickening, a shield.

“Faith — she’s more fragile than she looks,” Angel warned.

“They always are.” Their eyes met for a brief, fierce moment — regret, guilt, worry, pain. Spike looked away and then back. “You should listen to yourself.”

“What do you mean?” Angel demanded.

“Don’t go so stupid now you’re finally gettin’ some that you can’t see what’s right in front of your ugly face. She needs to talk to you.”

“Faith?” Spike didn’t clarify, just walked into the meeting and left Angel staring after him, confused.

 

One of the floorboards was splintering. “You’d have to get this sanded down,” Faith said, rubbing her steel toe over it, back and forth, friction and wood decaying beneath her shoe.

“And how much is that going to cost?” Buffy asked, sighing, again, she’d been sighing all day. Money was an issue. Training, housing, feeding all those girls was an issue. The Watcher’s Council’s money was bound up, being fought for, while they saved the world, over and over again.

“Just ask Angel for some dough. He’s loaded now,” Faith suggested, to get a rise. Buffy sighed again, walked to the big window in the wall. The real estate agent was watching them uneasily, a half-smile because she couldn’t decide if it was worth her time to be nice to these people. Faith joined Buffy at the window. There was a grimy alley below, something moving. “Or you could just train at Wolfram and Hart. I’m sure they have plenty of room.”

Buffy’s glare was hot, briefly, and then annoyed because Faith was smiling, was teasing, they’d gotten to that point where they could antagonize each other and never be angry afterwards, like sisters — only not sisters, not ever.

 

Later, Faith and Spike sparred in Wolfram and Hart’s training rooms. Fists drove into muscled flesh. Heels and forearms and thighs slamming into thighs. They both fought dirty.

 

Angel was doing paperwork when Buffy entered his office, drooping slightly. He lit up when their eyes meet. She stole his pen and didn’t tell him that she thought Faith and Spike might have had sex, and that she was upset about it. He didn’t mention that he knows they did, and was too.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faith fulfills the terms of the lost bet by telling Buffy and Angel how she really feels.

Faith woke up in the dark. She could feel Spike’s cold weight against her body but he didn’t breathe in his sleep, didn’t move around. Did vampires dream? That was the kind of stupid thought you had when you started sleeping with one, apparently.

Sleeping. Faith rarely shared a bed after sex, but she’d let Spike convince her to stay. Because she didn’t want to go back to the hotel and find Buffy gone? Because she wanted to prove that she could be wanted just as much as Buffy? That kind of thinking was a trap. She’d learned a long time ago that she could never be Buffy, that wanting what Buffy had was a losing game. So what was she even doing in LA now?

She’d lost a bet. She had to pay up, and then get the hell out of dodge. No matter how much she wanted to stay.

 

Buffy first. Faith found her at the hotel; she’d just gotten out of the shower, was wearing a too skimpy hotel towel, her hair dripping everywhere. “Oh Faith, you’re… uh, did you just get back from somewhere?” Buffy asked awkwardly, hitching the towel up. Faith eyed her golden legs and her wet hair, smiled.

“Spike’s,” she said, sprawling on her double bed. Buffy turned to the wall to put on her panties, a bra, her body half-hidden by the towel, her face entirely invisible.

“So you and Spike?” Buffy managed to say, her voice only squeaking up a little the way it did when she was unhappy.

“We’re just fucking,” Faith said, “I think.” She frowned, pulled on a loose thread on the bedspread.

In the past, Faith would probably have taken Buffy’s quiet “oh” as judgment, but now she suspected it was mostly disappointment and confusion. “I’m not gonna apologize,” Faith said.

Buffy whirled around, holding the towel in front of herself although she was wearing the equivalent of a bikini anyway. Her underwear and bra were both pink. “I don’t want you to apologize. You are both adults. And I’m… with Angel now.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

Buffy bit the inside of her lip and nodded, and then turned back to her suitcase, grabbing a shirt and skirt and pulling them on while Faith watched.

“So that’s going good?” Faith asked. “He’s up for it? I mean, of course he is.”

Buffy towel-dried her hair while she walked back across the room and sat on her own bed, across from Faith’s. “It’s going… great. Did you know that he fixed the curse?”

“He might have mentioned it,” Faith admitted.

A look of annoyance crossed Buffy’s face. “Did everyone know but me?” she asked.

The answer was probably yes. When Angel told Faith, years before, she had experienced a moment of pure panic, knowing it was only a matter of time before Buffy found out. Once there was nothing between them, they would get back together. And once they got back together, Faith was back out in the cold. Of course it had happened anyway. It was happening right at this very moment, in fact, and Faith had to do her part and then step away. It was stupid to try to fight fate.

“You know why I didn’t tell you?” Faith asked. Buffy shook her head, looking truly baffled. It was quite something how they could all revolve in orbit around Buffy Summers and she could be so goddamned naïve about it. Faith pushed herself up into a sitting position, back against the wall, and stared down her friend and sometime nemesis, her mirror, her other half, until she couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. “Because I didn’t want you to run back to him. Because I’m in love with you. Because the great fucking tragedy of my existence is that right when I thought we were finally getting close, when I thought you might want me the way I wanted you — I screwed it all up. And it took me so long to get over the disgust I saw in your eyes after that. I’m not saying any of it was your fault, it wasn’t. It was all me. But I… I knew I had lost you, and that killed me. Anyway, that was a long time ago. We’re friends now, right? But I still feel those things, B.”

Buffy didn’t say anything for a long time, and Faith couldn’t bring herself to look at her. “I always thought you were in love with Angel,” Buffy said finally, her voice still a bit stunned.

Faith grinned, shrugged. “Well that might be true too. I mean, at first I was just jealous he got all your attention. But later… uh, there are definitely some feelings there too. But I don’t think I have to tell you about them.”

“Have to? Faith, why are you telling me this?” Buffy asked, reaching over to tilt Faith’s chin up, make her look back. Buffy’s green eyes were clear and surprisingly calm. Faith had expected more of a panicked reaction, some kind of kneejerk heterosexual declaration.

“I lost a bet,” Faith admitted.

Buffy let her hand fall and Faith wished it back. Now they wouldn’t touch. Now Buffy wouldn’t let Faith see her pink underwear, even in glimpses. Now Faith wouldn’t be here to see it, she reminded herself. She’d talk to Angel and then leave, right from there.

But Buffy smiled at her, unexpectedly. “What the hell kind of bet was that?”

“I thought I was going to win,” Faith explained. “Then you’d be having this conversation with Spike instead.”

“Oh god.” Buffy groaned and put her head in her hands. “My life is way too complicated.”

Faith laughed. “Poor Buffy. It must just _suck_ to be you, with all of those people in love with you. How do you survive?”

Buffy looked up, a spark of annoyance in her eye. “Okay, okay. I realize the ridiculousness.” Her look softened, became unsure and she said, “Faith,” in that tone that made Faith want to run far, far away.

“Don’t. I don’t want pity, or for you to say something nice you don’t mean. You chose Angel. I get it. I want you two crazy kids to be happy.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything I didn’t mean. Or pity you.” Buffy waited until Faith looked up at her again before she continued. “I was going to say that it was a tragedy for both of us, what happened. I… I can’t say that I was ready to dump Angel for you when everything went wrong. I think you know how much I loved him then and how impossible that would have been for me. But I did… feel things too. You were exciting, and you made me feel exciting things about myself that I didn’t know how to handle. Things about being the Slayer and things about my sexual interests. I honestly don’t know what would have happened if things had gone differently. And I’m glad to know I wasn’t alone in that. Thank you for telling me.”

Faith was speechless, which seemed to be okay because Buffy kept going. “I guess I wonder why you didn’t ever say any of this before though? Why did you wait until now when I’ve already told Angel I want to be with him?”

This was like a dream and a nightmare all at once. Was Buffy really implying that if Faith had propositioned her sometime in the last few years, she might have gone for it?

“I didn’t want to screw anything up,” Faith said. She thought it was pretty much the truth, minus a few too-embarrassing-to-mention fears. “I’m real good at that.”

“You’re not the only one,” Buffy reminded her.

“I didn't want to lose you,” Faith admitted.

“You haven’t,” Buffy said firmly, “and you’re not going to. Not ever, Faith.”

 

Then Angel. Faith found him in his office, looking at spreadsheets. “You’ve become quite the corporate stooge.”

“I think stooge implies that I have a boss,” Angel shot back. “I don’t have a boss.”

“Not even shareholders?” Faith asked. She sat down and put her feet up on his desk. He smiled at her even as he shook his head.

“It’s a privately held company.”

“I really don’t know what any of that means, and I really don’t care,” Faith said.

“Understood.” His eyes flickered to her bag, which she had carried into the room and set down by his chair. “Are you leaving?”

“I am keeping my options open,” Faith replied. Buffy’s reaction had surprised and, she had to admit, shaken her. She was not quite sure she was ready to take off without understand what had happened a little bit better. On the other hand, after this conversation, she might be desperate to get out.

“I wish you would stay,” Angel said seriously.

Faith arched her eyebrows at him skeptically. “You sure there’s not a little too much firepower in this town already?”

“Not to fight demons, although your help is always welcome. I just wish you would stay because I miss you.”

“You’re going to be pretty busy keeping up with B,” Faith reminded him.

A smiled flickered across his face, and she felt a flash of jealousy accompanied by a calmer sort of pained happiness. She did want them to be happy. She could see that he was.

“You’ve been keeping busy yourself,” he noted, his expression settling back into his resting broodiness.

She acknowledged that with a tip of her head. “Spike and I have some common interests,” she admitted.

“Be careful,” Angel said.

Faith snorted. “Of Spike? He’s a teddy bear.”

“Oh him, with him. He’s fragile.”

A strange and interesting thought crossed Faith’s mind, hearing the concern in Angel’s voice, and how much he hated showing that concern. “You care about him,” she accused, softly. Angel shrugged uncomfortably, but didn’t say anything. “You do! You and Spike kind of have a thing.”

“It’s not—“

“Hey, hey, no need to get defensive. I get it. Buffy was right, this is way too complicated.”

“Buffy? What did Buffy say about Spike?” Angel asked.

Faith shook her head at him, smiling. “Don’t get your panties in a twist, Angel. We weren’t talking about Spike. Exactly.”

“What were you talking about? Exactly.”

Faith tilted her chair back, looking up at the ceiling just to make him wait. “I have to tell you something. I wouldn’t bring it up except I lost a bet and I’m not a welcher. The thing is, Angel, I love you. I guess I have for a long time. At first I was probably just jealous of Buffy, but later you saved my life. You’re the best person I know. Being good comes easy to B but you fought for it, and that is worth everything. Anyway, I’m still jealous of Buffy, I guess. But I get it. If you can really make it work now, after all this time, you’re meant for each other. I wouldn’t want to be the person who stood in the way.”

She lowered the chair legs to the floor and darted a look at him. His expression had not changed, of course. She braced herself for rejection in a familiar form. _I’m with Buffy_ , he’d say, and she’d hate him for it, hate him in all the ways, and love him too.

“You fought to be good, Faith,” Angel said. “My soul was forced on me. But you reclaimed yours, you fought for it. And, as much as I hate to admit it, so did Spike.”

So he was just going to ignore the other part? Okay, great. They were done here then, right?

“I love you too,” he said. “The last thing I want is for you to feel like you’re ever in the way, Faith. It’s not like that.”

This wasn’t right. They were supposed to laugh off her confession, or get uncomfortable and weird and tell her they just didn’t think of her that way. Then she could run away, like she always did, and go kill some demons and fuck some people and pretend she didn’t care.

Angel was coming around the desk now, and Faith was suddenly out of her seat in panic. “Faith, don’t leave, please,” he said. “We can figure this out. Just stay and talk to me.”

But she couldn’t. He was reaching for her even as she grabbed her bag and made for the door. Spike was waiting, in the hall, and for whatever reason that was okay. For whatever stupid reason, she could let him gather her up and hold her until she stopped shaking. “I’m sorry, love,” he murmured into her hair, “I’m sorry but it had to be done.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys' turn to be in charge (sort of).

That night Spike took care of Faith.

So far, he’d let her take the lead in and out of bed. She liked to be on top; he liked to be topped; match made in the nasty version of heaven Spike preferred to imagine. But after her rough day of confessions, Spike sensed she needed something a little different. The fact that she didn’t fight him on it told him that he was right, as did her whimper when he thrust inside of her.

She was face down on the bed, nearly prone, his body weight pressing into her, hips and wrists and ankles. He had one knee wedged, just so, lifting her up enough for him to angle himself, to get some leverage. He heard it in her voice when he scraped against her g-spot, and felt it in her skin pebbling against his. “That’s a good girl,” he crooned into her ear. “Just let me fuck you.”

He drew back a little and then drilled into her again, their bodies slipping across his sheets ever so slightly. His fingers slid into her dark hair. Her ass rose to meet him and he ground down, holding her still. Gently, carefully, but inexorably, he pressed into her skull. He could hear the small, sharp sounds of her breathing into the mattress, how they changed with each thrust. He could hear her blood in her veins. She was so hot and tight at this angle, her muscles clutching him so strongly he could barely move, he had to fight for it. She was worth the fight.

“Such a good girl,” Spike whispered and she resisted him, briefly, her neck tensing, her hips bucking. He kissed her neck, her ear, tenderly, and held her still with his teeth against her throat, held himself still inside of her until she was grinding back with desperation rather than anger. She was terrified, that was all. Couldn’t stand being told she might be worth someone’s time. Spike knew the feeling well. He knew everything she was feeling now, except exactly what it was like to have his cock in her cunt; although he’d been fucked other ways, in his time. Held down and made to feel it.

 

Angel had wanted to take Buffy to a fancy dinner, but at first she had declined with a laugh. “I didn’t come here to eat expensive food while watching you pretend to enjoy it,” she said.

“I actually do enjoy it,” he told her, and read the surprise on her face. “Besides, this place has a diverse clientele.”

“They don’t serve human blood in like, vintages, do they?” Buffy asked, pulling a concerned face. “Because I would probably have to frown on that sort of thing.”

Angel knew of several places that did exactly that — volunteer donated, they claimed — but he knew Buffy well enough not to take her to one of those. “Animal only, I promise.”

His reward was seeing her in a little black dress that evening when he picked her up from the hotel: leather insets, strapless, hair falling effortlessly over one shoulder. She looked beautiful, and in a way he had never seen before. She looked like a grown-up. When she smiled at him as he held the car door open for her, he felt his non-beating heart begin to go again.

There was certainly an element of masculine pride to the whole evening, to handing the keys to the valet, and being greeted by name by the host, and putting his hand on Buffy’s lower back to guide her toward his regular table. He wanted to show Buffy that he had made a life for himself without her, and that he was known and respected in this world. He wanted to show her he could take care of her in a way he never could have thirteen years before when he left Sunnydale. He didn’t necessarily like these impulses in himself, and he wasn’t sure that they would have the desired effect on Buffy, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself from trying.

“Okay,” she said when they sat down, “I’m impressed. That was the point, right?” Her eyes tilted toward him with a mischievous sparkle, softening the words.

“Pretty much.”

“You don’t get to order for me,” she said sternly. “I do know what all the words on this menu mean.” She glanced down and added, “Except for about half of the French words.”

“Did I give the impression I would do that?” Angel asked, chagrined. Spike would roast him if he ever heard about this.

Buffy put down her menu and cocked her head at him thoughtfully. “No, not really. But we are kind of starting fresh here, and I think it’s good to be up front. I’m not seventeen anymore.”

Angel nodded. “Okay. How about you try to trust me to know that, and I will try to trust you to know that I no longer sit in an empty room brooding all day.”

“Deal. We need a drink, I think.” Buffy turned, but the waiter was already at her elbow with glasses of champagne.

“I didn’t order them, I promise,” Angel said. She shook her head, eyes laughing, and they clinked champagne flutes. He had nearly forgotten what it was like just to be around Buffy, how she made even a difficult conversation feel lighter, how she made him feel lighter.

They ordered, talked about the restaurant, about places Buffy had eaten on her travels around the world finding slayers, fighting demons. For all he still had two centuries on her, Buffy had seen more of the world than he had. Airplanes and not having to worry about being exposed to sunlight really made travel a lot easier than it had been in his roving days. They compared notes on a few places they had both been: Rome — avoiding the topic of The Immortal — Shanghai, London. They talked about work too, about demons they had fought recently, apocalypses avoided. Angel noticed that Buffy seemed to be talking around Faith, as he had been, and he wondered again if Faith had spoken to Buffy too, that afternoon.

They were between the second and third courses when Buffy stopped avoiding and simply said what they had both been thinking. He liked that about her now. She had always been guileless but now that trait was combined with an adult confidence. “Faith and I had a talk today,” she said, and looked up at him through her lashes to see if he knew what she meant.

“She talked to me too,” Angel admitted.

Buffy nodded. “I kind of thought so; she said something about not telling me, as if she was going to tell someone else — uh, something.”

“Her feelings for me,” Angel said.

“Yes.”

Angel reached for her hand, wanting the light to come back into her eyes. She looked anxious, tired. “I want you to know that if it was ever a choice, I would choose you,” he said. “Faith and I have a lot in common, and I—“ he faltered, not quite sure how to say what he felt about Faith without making the situation worse.

Buffy was giving him a strange look though, and then she smiled a little and said, “No, Angel, she didn’t tell me about her feelings for _you_. She told me about her feelings for _me._ ”

Ah. Angel took a moment to absorb that. He’d known there was something more than he understood, some other current to Faith’s unhappiness. And years ago, he had suspected that Faith’s interest in Buffy was more than that of a friend or a rival. It made sense. Buffy was easy to love.

Having taken that in, his attention focused back on Buffy. She still looked strained at the edges. Angel noted that she had not yet reassured him the way he had immediately reassured her. “Did you know?” he asked.

“Not even a little,” she confessed. “I feel like an idiot, dragging her along with me on this trip, when it must be the last place in the world she wants to be.”

Angel thought about pointing out that she seemed to be finding some comfort in Spike’s arms, but he thought that might make this discussion even more difficult to have. Although they would have to discuss Spike, at some point.

But, as usual, Buffy could read into his hesitation. “And yes, I know about her and Spike.”

How do you feel about all of this? seemed like the obvious question, but Angel could not quite bring himself to ask it. “She could have said no if she didn’t want to come,” he pointed out instead.

Their third course arrived and Angel released her hand so she could eat. Buffy stared at her plate for a long moment. “I don’t want her to leave,” she confessed. “I feel like if she leaves now, we’ll have lost her again.” She picked up her knife and fork, sliced a scallop in half and popped it in her mouth. “This is really good.”

Angel smiled at the semi-mournful tone in which she delivered the praise, then sobered. “I don’t want to lose her either,” he admitted. “But I’m afraid we can’t ask her to stay without…”

“Giving her a reason,” Buffy finished. She raised her eyes to meet his and he wondered what it was lurking in those clear green depths. She was more opaque to him now than she used to be; was that because she had learned to hide or because he did not know her so well now? “But what reason can we possibly give her?”

Angel could think of reasons, but not ones he thought Buffy would like. Not ones he was quite prepared to face himself, at this moment when he had just got back the woman he had been waiting for all these years upon years.

“Maybe Spike will give her a reason,” Buffy said in a strange tone, hopeful and bitter and aware of its own contradictions.

“He has his uses,” Angel agreed, feeling, and sounding, bleaker than he intended.

Buffy took a sip of her wine, and ate another scallop, and then seemed to decide to be happy. She sliced her final scallop in half, and turned to him and said, “Try this. Since you apparently like food now.”

Angel let her feed it to him. It was, indeed, delicious. He watched her reconstruct herself, and the evening, and him, and he just hoped that he was on the inside of whatever walls she needed to throw up to do it.

 

Later, back at Angel’s house, Angel stripped the black and leather dress off of her and took his time learning every inch of her golden skin. She had so many new scars, ten years, more, of violence and pain. The scar he had left her with, on her neck, was faded to almost nothing now. He breathed over it for a moment and then moved on, tracing the line of her collarbone, licking her pink nipples until they glistened and her heart beat faster, and then down over the soft curve of her belly, her hips, her thighs.

If he ever drank from her again it would be from her thigh, he thought, tracing the line of her saphenous vein, before he parted her lips and licked her from cunt to clit. Once, many years ago, he had asked her for this but she had said no then, it was unfair when she could never reciprocate. He had thought, based on her flaming cheeks, that she might just have been too embarrassed.

She was not embarrassed now. She arched her pelvis to give him easier access, and whispered his name in a breathy chant. He teased and tasted her, drawing out her sweet juices, swirling them around her clit before returning to the source. Her hands sunk into his hair, threatening to pull it out and he welcomed the painful pressure. He fucked her with his tongue, and then with his fingers as he lapped at her clit, finally, making her sob. She clenched him so tight when she came that she might have broken his hand if he had not been what he was. He coaxed her easily into orgasm and slowly down from the heights, savoring every moment of it. In the scope of his lifetime thirteen years was not long at all. But it had felt long enough to wait for this.

“Angel,” she said, her voice calmer finally, and he let her pull him up and lay him down on the bed. She smiled, another face of Buffy he had never seen: naked, pure sex, hair tousled and breasts marked with his lips and teeth, utterly unashamed. “My turn.”

And nothing, nothing, in 259 years of death, had ever felt as good as Buffy’s mouth closing around his cock in warm, soft suction. She took him all the way in to her throat, eyes raised to watch his expression. It must have been revealing, because he had no control over it whatsoever. He was mesmerized by the sight of her engulfing him, by the joy in her eyes, by the feel of her mouth everywhere around him.

She pulled back a little, and he found himself fisting her hair and her eyes laughed at him, knowing his sudden desperation, and made promises, every one of which she kept.


End file.
